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Feminism, Spirituality and Politics

Today I climbed the stairs to my writing desk to write a post about the poet’s dilemma. How can I wake myself up? How can I surprise myself? How can I make old information new or find new ways to talk about experience? I’ve already written quite a lot about matters of importance to me and hope that perhaps one line or two has struck a universal chord – for those who read poetry and find their way to my poems.

Poetry heals, poetry relives, poetry is the universal language. Even people who insist they don’t understand or like poetry, sway to its truth at weddings, funerals, inaugurations, graduations, demonstrations or in quiet moments of need.

Glass beads fall from these old jeweled hatshe'd stuff into his selling suitcase,carry home to Mother, his sometimewife—gifts to quiet complaints of loneliness.

I'm surrounded by women was dad's lamentbut at dawn he headed for his factory, opened upfor his hundred piece workers. Preferredtheir noise to ours. They were his girls.We were his women—

There is no rising now, no hope the rabbisspoke of when they came to our apartmentto berate him for his failings in the faith,reminded him his grandfather wasthe wisdom-rebbe in the Polish villageof his birth, his grandmother, a healer,her potions brewed from greensin adjacent woods dense enoughto shield the family for escape.No woods on Delancey Street, New York,America. And dad was through with shul.On holy days he made us stay indoors.

But when he could, he treated us to Sundaydinners at the Chinese restaurant and tripsway out to Jones Beach where the city endedand he could brave the big waves. Some dayshe'd take me to his factory. Disembodiedwooden heads and hats in stages of completionmingled with chattering Spanish 'girls'at the rows of sewing machines.